


The All Hallows Eve Affair

by illyakin



Category: Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-27
Updated: 2013-01-27
Packaged: 2017-11-27 04:17:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/657939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illyakin/pseuds/illyakin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Halloween nightmare</p>
            </blockquote>





	The All Hallows Eve Affair

The All Hallows Eve Affair

The street was dark. There were not only no street lights, but there were no lights coming from any windows in any of the buildings. Only the full moon shone brightly in the clear cold sky casting a measure of illumination.

It was All Hallows Eve. A full moon and dark eeriness was usually a plus for this night. But where were the trick or treaters? Where was the laughter of children, their gaudy costumes, and their tired parents? The agent wondered about these things. He wondered, too, how he came to be where he was. He did not remember this place. He remembered who he was, who his partner was, who he worked for, but he had no memory of coming to this dreary example of small town America.

A little girl slowly approached the slender blond haired man and he watched her with scrutinizing eyes. Her footsteps faltered and she stumble before she continued. 

“Mister?” she asked stopping in front of Illya Kuryakin. “Can you help me?” 

Illya looked down at the young girl. Her blue eyes were wide and fearful, her blonde curls streaked and wet with some foreign substance. Her pale face was bruised and smeared with dirt. Illya noted that same substance dripped from the corner of her mouth and the front of her simple shift was soaked with so much of it that the print of the material was obscured. He crouched down to her level to speak to her.

“What do you need help with, little one? Are you lost?” he asked her kindly, casting glances around the intersection.

The girl shook her head. “No, sir,” she answered, her voice a bit hoarse.

“What’s this you’re covered in? It looks like blood. Is this a scary costume for Halloween?” Illya grinned and lightly touched the wetness at the corner of her mouth. He rubbed his fingers together then smelled the substance. It was blood, real blood. He looked at the girl with narrowed eyes. Blood bubbled from a gash across her throat. “What’s going on here?” he asked authoritatively as he looked around warily.

“There’s someone in my house killing my family,” the child managed before collapsing into Illya’s arms. 

He stood, cradling the girl. Illya looked around but the streets of the small town of Woodbine were empty. The few houses lining the main road were dark as were the businesses. Even the small hotel was dark. Confused but determined to find out what was going on, Illya followed the trail of blood the child had left and came to a small cottage just off the main street. It, too, was dark and Illya approached the front door cautiously. 

He placed the child on the bench on the small front porch, turned toward the door, and pulled up short, startled to find someone standing right behind him.

“Napoleon!” Illya exclaimed, a mixture of surprise and relief in his voice. “Where did you come from?”

“Hello, Illya, what’s going on?” Napoleon flashed a brilliant smile.

“This little girl asked me to help her. She said someone was in her house killing her family,” Illya explained briefly and indicated the girl on the bench.

Napoleon leaned over the child and examined her face, then touched her throat. “She’s dead,” he stated. He turned toward Illya and continued, “She’s been dead a long time, Illya. When did you say she spoke to you?”

“What do you mean she’s been dead a long time? I just spoke to her a few minutes ago out on the main street,” Illya answered and pushed past Napoleon to examine the girl more closely himself. He looked up with startled eyes. “I am telling you she walked up to me not ten minutes ago and asked for my help, Napoleon,” Illya insisted, even though the evidence showed him his partner was right.

Napoleon just gazed steadily at Illya. Abruptly Illya stood and knocked on the door of the cottage. When no one answered he pounded on it with his fist.

“I’d say no one is home,” Napoleon commented.

“Or dead like her,” Illya replied. He tried the door. “It’s locked.”

“That never stopped you before,” Napoleon said with a smirk.

Illya narrowed his eyes at his friend, then got down on one knee and picked the lock. He opened the door and started to enter.

“You coming?” he asked Napoleon.

Napoleon smiled broadly, “I wouldn’t miss this for the world.”

Before crossing the threshold, Napoleon glanced over at the child on the bench. He blew her a kiss and chuckled softly as the little corpse turned to ash, crumbled, the remnants carried away on a sudden gust of wind. Smiling a satisfied smile, Napoleon entered the house and closed the door behind him.

Illya stilled at the slamming of the door and the sudden plunge into utter blackness.

“You could have left the door open until I found a lamp or something, couldn’t you Napoleon?” Illya asked, mildly annoyed that his partner had not considered that before he’d slammed the door closed.

“Napoleon?” Illya called when he got no answer. “Napoleon!” he called more insistently. “This is no time to play games, we have to check out what that little girl told me,” Illya unnecessarily informed his partner. His tone made it clear he was very annoyed.

When he was greeted with continued silence, Illya sighed loudly and moved carefully into the pitch black interior. ‘There should be some light coming in the windows,’ he thought and strained his eyes to try to catch some indication of where the windows were.

Suddenly Illya was falling forward. He had no time to put out his hands to break his fall and landed heavily on the hard wood floor. His chin banged on the hardwood, his teeth clamped together and drew blood from the tip of his tongue. 

“Chyort,” he cursed mildly as he pushed himself up onto hands and knees then rose. “Napoleon, have you found a light source of any kind?” he called into the darkness. 

“Sure have,” Napoleon said standing so close behind his partner that Illya felt his warm breath on the back of his neck. “You’re bleeding.”

Illya whirled at the sound of Napoleon’s voice. His partner stood inches away from him, a lit candle in his hand. Though he could see the flame on the candle, it seemed to give off no light at all. Illya’s brow furrowed.

“I…ah…bit my tongue when I fell,” Illya answered warily, “How did you know?”

Illya could not see Napoleon’s face even though they were nearly nose to nose. He heard Napoleon sniff the air and for some reason that sent a shiver up his spine. Illya took an involuntary stop back and nearly fell over whatever obstacle was on the floor. Napoleon’s hand grasped his forearm to steady him.

“Blood smells like copper,” Napoleon answered in a near whisper, “but more than that, it’s smeared on your mouth.”

“What is wrong with you?” Illya demanded, extricating his arm from his partner’s icy grip. “I bit the tip of my tongue, it’s not bleeding enough for you to smell the copper scent of blood and how can you see it? That candle isn’t giving off any light at all. Where did you get it?” Illya fired off the questions in quick succession. He pulled out his handkerchief and wiped his mouth.

“What are you talking about, Illya? I found the candle in the foyer and it gives off plenty of light. A candle that gives off no light?” Napoleon shook his head and chuckled. “Preposterous!” 

Suddenly the candle cast a pool of yellow light between the agents and illuminated a small area around them. “And I think you’re bleeding more than you realized,” Napoleon continued as he pointed to the bloody handkerchief in Illya’s hand. 

Illya glanced at the cloth in his hand soaked with blood. That was impossible! He no longer tasted blood in his mouth so he knew he was no longer bleeding. There was no way he’d bled enough to soak the handkerchief. He folded it over hiding the blood and put it in his inside breast pocket, his eyes never leaving his partner’s face.

“Are you all right, Napoleon?” Illya asked cautiously.

“I’m fine,” Napoleon answered, “but I’m afraid the Hightower’s are not,” he finished with a tone of false regret. He shook his head and cast a sad look at the body on the floor behind Illya.

Illya followed Napoleon’s gaze. “Bozhe moy,” he murmured and went to one knee beside the corpse. It was a man, perhaps thirty-five years of age. It was obvious what had killed him. Aside from a multitude of bruises on his face, there was a gash across his throat that had nearly decapitated the man. Illya touched the dead man’s face, it was still warm.

“He’s not been dead long,” Illya announced then looked around confused. “With a wound like this there should be blood everywhere, but there’s just what’s on the body itself. Do you supposed he was killed somewhere else and then placed here?” he asked. He stood and faced Napoleon waiting for an answer.

Napoleon met his eyes, broke into a delighted grin, and blew out the candle with a hearty laugh.

“Napoleon!” Illya took a step forward and waved his arm from left to right reaching for his partner but found nothing. Napoleon was agile and quick but not so quick that he could move completely out of reach in total darkness. ‘And why would he?’ Illya thought.

“Napoleon! What are you doing? Where are you?” Illya called into the blackness. He heard no movement, no breath, nothing.

“Boo.” Napoleon’s voice came from behind him and Illya turned that way. He heard Napoleon’s chuckle. It seemed to come from behind him again and Illya twisted around again.

“Am I scaring you, Illya?” He heard whispered into his left ear.

Turning that direction he reached out and found nothing there. “No, but you are confusing me, Napoleon. What are you up to?”

In Illya’s right ear Napoleon’s voice answered, “Scaring you…” and instantly from across the room came the rest of the answer, “to death.” Napoleon’s soft chuckle seemed to fill the air all around him and Illya spun around but could see nothing. 

Something touched his left arm, then caressed the right side of his face, then pressed the small of his back, Illya twisting and turning at each touch. Then he felt Napoleon’s hand clasp his own. 

“Come with me, Illya. I want to show you something else,” Napoleon’s voice instructed as he pulled Illya along.

Illya resisted. “Light the candle first, Napoleon. I can’t see,” Illya replied. The candle winked on, but again gave off no light. Illya wondered fleetingly why he had no pen light, no matches, or any of his usual equipment. He let himself be led through a doorway and down a flight of stairs. It was a basement and it smelled of rot, decay, and dampness. Napoleon let go of his hand and the candle winked out again.

Illya stood very still, listening hard, straining to hear any sound. ‘It is like having cotton stuffed in my ears and a blindfold over my eyes,’ he mused. He waited, thinking over the strangeness of the night so far. Who was the child? Who were the Hightowers? What did Napoleon have to do with all of it and why was he acting so strangely? Illya considered that this might all be an hallucination brought on by some THRUSH drug. He could not remember where he was or why or how he’d gotten there, so perhaps it was THRUSH. Illya also considered that it might all be an elaborate prank for All Hallows Eve and decided to wait until Napoleon made the next move.

Spider feet tickled his jaw line. Surprised, Illya brushed at the sensation. He heard Napoleon chuckling softly. Again he waited quietly for long minutes. Then he doubled over with a loud ‘Oof!’ as a fist connected with his stomach. Recovering, Illya breathed in deeply and stood waiting for what would come next. 

An unseen hand grabbed a fistful of Illya’s hair and pulled his head back baring his throat. He felt the cold hard edge of a blade against his throat.

“Aren’t you curious?” Napoleon snarled in his ear.

“No. You’ll show me when you’re ready,” Illya answered as calmly as he could. The blade was sharp and just bit into his flesh.

“Or I can kill you without showing you.” Hatred and anger dripped from Napoleon’s words as he pressed the blade harder to Illya’s throat. 

Illya remained absolutely still. He felt Napoleon’s muscles tighten then the blade slid quickly across his throat. Illya gasped as Napoleon shoved him roughly to the ground and roared his displeasure with an animalistic howl. Illya felt his throat and found that the cut was superficial. It was bleeding, but not much. It was barely more than a scratch.

“All right,” Illya called out, “Show me, Napoleon. What is it you want me to see?”

“Finally.” He heard whispered in his ear and the room lit up as though flood lights lined every wall.

Slowly Illya stood and stared in horror around the room. Bodies littered the floor. A woman sat propped against one wall, two small children lay close by her. A teen aged boy lay sprawled at the foot of the stairs, a teen aged girl lay in the center of the room. Illya took a step back as he saw a familiar face off to the right. The little blonde haired girl lay on her side, her eyes wide and unseeing. 

Illya looked for Napoleon, but other than the corpses and himself, there was no one else. Then another familiar face caught Illya’s eye in a darker corner of the room. He moved closer to confirm what his disbelieving eyes told him. 

“Mr. Waverly?” Illya knelt and confirmed it was his superior. “No,” he murmured. 

He turned to his left and saw more familiar faces. Mark Slate, April Dancer…Jules Cutter! All of them dead!

“Napoleon,” Illya implored, “Please tell me you didn’t do this.” Illya surveyed all around him, the carnage and blood and gore. “Where are you, Napoleon?” he shouted.

“Right here,” Napoleon’s voice, directly behind him, was calm and amused.

“Did you do this?” Illya asked turning to face him.

“Every bit of it,” Napoleon smiled brightly. “Isn’t it glorious?”

Illya’s stomach lurched and he pulled his pistol and aimed it at his best friend. “You’re sick, Napoleon. You need help.” Illya grimaced at the heartlessness of his friend.

“I only need one thing, Illya. One thing and then it’ll all be all right again. I’ll go on working for U.N.C.L.E. and everything will be fine. I promise,” Napoleon crossed his heart and held up his hand in pledge. “Put the gun away, Illya and help me take the last step.”

“What step is that, Napoleon? If it is anything other than turning yourself in, then I can’t help you,” Illya answered somberly.

“But you can, Illya. You see all of them?” Napoleon indicated all the bodies, “I slit their throats. All of them. But when I had you under the blade the same way, I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t cut your throat, Illya. I couldn’t still your voice. All of them died without a sound.” Napoleon blinked and the room was plunged into darkness again. 

Illya felt his gun wrenched from his hand. He tried to grab, fight back, but it seemed as if he was fighting a phantom. Napoleon was nowhere and yet his voice came from every direction.

“You’re the last, Illya. Once you join the others, I can go back to work. Back to U.N.C.L.E. They’ll probably have me investigate the disappearances.” Napoleon laughed.

“So are you going to kill me in the dark? Too afraid to face me like a man?” Illya challenged angrily.

“Not at all, Illya. I want to see your face, hear your scream up close and personal,” Napoleon said from directly in front of Illya.

The lights came back on and Illya saw Napoleon’s face mere inches away. “Good bye, Illya,” Napoleon smiled and thrust his knife into Illya’s belly.

Illya hissed in his breath, but was determined not to give Napoleon the satisfaction of a scream. The blade was pulled back and Illya felt it thrust into his chest. He closed his eyes against the pain and dropped to the floor to lie among his colleagues and the strangers he presumed were the Hightowers. 

Blackness of another sort enveloped him just before sound retreated into nothing he heard Napoleon’s frustrated rage.

“I didn’t silence your voice! I need your screams! You’ve cheated me!”

MFUMFUMFUMFUMFU

Napoleon squeezed his eyes shut and grabbed his head in both hands, the blood pounding in his ears.

“I didn’t silence your voice! I need your screams! You’ve cheated me!” he shouted so loudly his throat burned and his voice echoed off the walls.

Illya sat up in bed, his eyes wild his body clammy with sweat. He looked around and calmed when he recognized the guest bedroom in Napoleon’s apartment. He was staying at Napoleon’s while his apartment was fitted with an updated alarm and lock system. 

‘A dream,’ he sighed internally, ‘It was only a dream.’ He drew in a shaky breath. ‘More like a nightmare,’ he amended.

Illya threw back the covers, padded softly to the bureau and stared at his reflection in the mirror.

“Bozhe moy, what a sight,” Illya said aloud staring at his hair which was sticking up at all angles. There was the shadow of whiskers on his cheeks and chin and dark circles under his eyes. He looked like he’d been ill, but he knew it was only the bad night’s sleep due to the nightmare.

Half hour later, Illya had washed, shaved, combed, and dressed. He looked into the mirror again, smiling at his reflection this time and headed to the kitchen to make coffee and breakfast. 

As he passed his partner’s room, he barely paused as he knocked twice loudly and called, “Breakfast in twenty minutes,” as he continued down the corridor.

Illya decided on omelets and set about chopping and grating ingredients. A little while later, he heard his partner coming down the hall. Illya had his back to the door when he passed by. 

“Good morning,” Illya called over his shoulder and received a tired grunt in response. He chuckled as he folded over the first omelet and plated it, put a slice of toast on the side and placed it to the back of the stove to keep warm. When the other omelet was ready, Illya placed the two plates and coffee pot on the counter between the kitchen and the dining room.

“Breakfast is served,” Illya announced, rounding the corner and placing everything on the dining room table. He poured the coffee and picked up his cup preparing to take a sip. The cup clattered back to the saucer as Illya gaped in surprise.

“What’s wrong, Illya ?”

“Who are you? What are you doing here?” Illya spluttered.

“What do you mean, what am I doing here? Where else would I be?” Jason Kimble asked looking concerned.

“I mean what are you doing here? Where’s Napoleon?” Illya inquired setting aside his coffee and preparing to draw his gun.

Jason stared at him for a long moment then sighed and took a seat at the table. “Illya, I thought you understood all this,” he began.

“All what?” Illya asked suspiciously.

“About Napoleon,” Jason answered.

“What about Napoleon,” Illya grew cold and shakily took a seat.

Kimble sighed and shook his head. “All right, I’ll explain it once again. Three months ago, Napoleon…lost his mind. He murdered a family…”

“The Hightowers?” Illya ventured uneasily.

“That’s right,” Jason encouraged before continuing. “Napoleon killed a lot of other people too…”

“Mr. Waverly, Mark Slate, April Dancer and Jules Cutter?” Illya asked hesitantly.

“Right. You do remember!” Kimble exclaimed. “Mr. Smythe partnered us after…” he paused waiting to see if Illya would fill in the blank but Illya just looked miserable and sick. “After Napoleon was put on trial and put to death for murder,” Kimble finished somberly.

The room spun and Illya felt very, very sick. “No, it can’t be,” he muttered.

“He thought he’d killed you, too. We found him standing over you in the cellar screaming,” Jason was saying.

Illya joined in, “Screaming, ‘I didn’t silence your voice! I need your screams! You’ve cheated me!’,” Illya stated flatly. He looked up at the stranger across from him. “I’m right, am I not?”

“Yes. You must have heard him even though you were unconscious,” Jason told him. “You don’t look well, Illya . Are you all right?”

“No. I don’t think I am,” Illya answered rising from the table. “I…I think I need some time alone,” he said and took a step toward the hall. Before he could go another step, he collapsed.

MFUMFUMFUMFUMFU

Illya sat up in bed, his eyes wild his body clammy with sweat. He looked around and calmed when he recognized the guest bedroom in Napoleon’s apartment. He was staying at Napoleon’s while his apartment was fitted with an updated alarm and lock system. 

‘A dream,’ he sighed internally, ‘It was only a dream.’ He drew in a shaky breath. ‘More like a nightmare,’ he amended.

Illya threw back the covers, padded softly to the bureau and stared at his reflection in the mirror.

“Bozhe moy, what a sight,” Illya said aloud staring at his hair which was sticking up at all angles. There was the shadow of whiskers on his cheeks and chin and dark circles under his eyes. He looked like he’d been ill, but he knew it was only the bad night’s sleep due to the nightmare.

Half hour later, Illya had washed, shaved, combed, and dressed. He looked into the mirror again, smiling at his reflection this time and headed to the kitchen to make coffee and breakfast. 

As he passed his partner’s room, he barely paused as he knocked twice loudly and called, “Breakfast in twenty minutes,” as he continued down the corridor. He stopped when he heard his partner’s voice.

“I didn’t silence your voice! I need your screams! You’ve cheated me!” Napoleon shouted so loudly his voice echoed off the walls.

Napoleon started when hands grasped his and tore them away from the sides of his head. Napoleon realized only then that he had grabbed handfuls of his hair. He continued to scream his frustration even as the hands gently extricated his hair from between his fingers and pulled his hands down to his lap.

Napoleon opened his eyes and they went wide with surprise. “You!” he cried hoarsely.

“Yes, me. Now calm down, Napoleon,” Illya soothed his friend with reassuring words and a soft tone.

“How…what…I don’t understand.” Napoleon finally calmed down and lay back on his pillows.

“You were having a nightmare,” Illya explained.

“Yeah, and it was a doozie,” Napoleon wiped his hand down his face. He looked at his partner and narrowed his eyes. “If I’m the one who had the nightmare, why do you look like that?” he asked.

“Like what?” Illya asked a bit tremulously.

“ Illya, you look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Napoleon tried to jest, but he could barely manage a smile.

“Tell me your dream, Napoleon,” Illya urged his friend.

“I was in a house full of…murdered people.” Napoleon closed his eyes remembering. He did not want to admit his role in the dream, which seemed silly because it was only a dream.

“A family?” Illya asked.

Napoleon opened his eyes and stared into Illya’s eyes. He did not see mockery as he had expected. He saw understanding and empathy. “Yes,” Napoleon replied quietly.

“The Hightowers?” Illya asked holding Napoleon’s gaze.

“Yes,” Napoleon repeated just as quietly. “And…others.”

“Mr. Waverly, Mark Slate, April Dancer and Jules Cutter?” Illya’s voice was pitched as quietly as his partner’s.

“What’s going on, Illya?” Napoleon asked. He balled his hands into fists to keep Illya from seeing the slight trembling of his hands even as he noticed the tremor in Illya’s where his hand held Napoleon’s forearm.

“I had that same dream, Napoleon. It was so very real, I woke up in a panic,” Illya admitted.

“How can that be?” Napoleon wondered. 

Illya shook his head slowly.

A soft chuckle reverberated through the room. Both men stood and hurried into the hall as the chuckle became a giggle and grew in volume. Each agent turned moving down the hall in opposite directions as the giggle morphed and filled the apartment with the unmistakable feminine laughter of Angelique. 

“Happy Halloween, darlings,” her voice echoed through the house.

Napoleon looked back at Illya, who was staring down the hall at Napoleon. A cold chill ran up their spines as the laughter continued to resonate around them.


End file.
